Old Friends
by Keystspf
Summary: Greg gets a visit from an old friend and a lesson on blowing up a gas station...


Disclaimer: Of course I don't own CSI. I do own Alana Rowan, who is me... I mean mine. Don't sue me and don't steal her. Lt. Riley and Detective Patrick MacDonnel are also mine.

Chapter 1: Introductions

"Hey guys," Greg said happily as he entered the breakroom with a young woman following close behind.

"Hey Greg, who's your friend?" asked Warrick.

"Let me introduce my good friend Alana Rowan. We grew up across the street from each other," Greg said proudly, "Alana, this is Warrick Brown, Sara Sidle, and Nick Stokes."

"It's nice to finally meet you all. Greg's told me a lot about you," she said with a quiet smile.

"Really?" asked Sara sending a questioning look Greg's direction, "Like what?"

"Hey, it's all good," Greg said before Alana could answer, "Alana is a CSI in Philly. We talk about work. You guys come up."

"Philly, huh?" Nick queried, "You know a guy named Mike Keppler?"

"I had a feeling he would come up," Alana sighed, "Yeah. I knew him. Not well though. I worked with him on one case my first year as a CSI... nearly got me fired. I couldn't believe it when Greg told me he tried the whole reverse forensics thing again after the incendent in Philly."

"Yeah, it didn't go over so well here either. If we hadn't tied the suspect to another murder, he'd have gotten away." Sara said, somewhat flatly.

Alana shook her head. "Our guy did get away. Keppler was transferred, and we were left with the aftermath. He went on to kill three more girls and a cop."

"That sucks," Warrick huffed.

"Yeah, it does." She took a deep breath and continued, "I processed the scene, and I was there when Macky got shot." Alana said this with a far away look, like she was remembering something difficult, "First time I ever had to draw my weapon." She paused for a moment, "First time I ever had to use it."

"What happened?" asked several voices at once.

Alana began her narrative as if she had rehearsed it a hundred times, which she had. Court was a nightmare. "Detective Patrick MacDonnel and I were processing a scene where three girls had been dumped when we heard gunfire outside. The first few shots were the suspect. He shot at Lt. Riley. Riley was hit in the arm, it was minor and the other shots missed. Riley got off two shots as the suspect turned the corner. One of them hit the building, the other seemed to have grazed the guy's side, but it didn't even phase him. We ran outside, guns drawn, to see what was going on. Next thing I know, Mac is down. He was hit, just above his vest. I didn't even have time to think, I just shot back."

"You kill the guy?" asked Warrick.

"No. He was wearing a vest. That's why Riley's shot didn't stop him. My first shot hit him square in the chest. It knocked the wind out of him. My second shot hit his right shoulder and he dropped his gun. He grabbed his arm with his left hand. I ran for his gun. Riley got the guy and cuffed him."

"I don't think I could have pulled the trigger." Sara said thoughtfully.

"I have said the same thing, but then I saw Mac go down and reflex took over. I may as well have been at the range," Alana said sadly, "I lost a good friend that day."

The room sat in solemn silence for a few moments. It was interrupted by Grissom who came in to hand out assignments.

"Why so quiet?" he asked looking around the room, his curious gaze resting at last on Greg and his friend.

"Oh, hey Grissom," Greg said, snapping the crew out of their thoughts, "Let me introduce my friend Alana Rowan. She's a CSI in Philly. We go way back."

"Nice to meet you," Grissom said, scrunching up his eyebrows, "but that doesn't answer my question."

"We were talking about Keppler and the reverse forensics fiasco back in Philly," Alana answered attempting to stifle a laugh.

"Is there something funny about that?"

"Well, actually no sir, there isn't. I lost a good friend because of the whole thing and nearly lost my job." she said a little more seriously, but then half giggled as she said, "It's just Greg does a really good impression of you."

At that the whole crew was attempting quite unsuccessfully to keep a strait face. Grissom just raised his eyebrow at Greg again, and turned back to Alana, "I'm sorry to hear that." He was about to ask where Catherine was when suddenly she came rushing through the door.

"Sorry I'm late, what'd I miss?" she asked slightly out of breath.

"Not much, but I'd like you to meet Alana Rowan. We grew up together and now she's a CSI back east." Greg said, nudging Alana to keep quiet and purposefully neglecting the fact that she was from Philadelphia.

"Nice to meet you. Catherine Willows," she said, introducing herself and taking a seat on the couch next to Warrick.

"Well, now that we all know who we are... assignments." Grissom began handing out the slips. "Nick, Catherine, you two have a 419 outside the Tangiers. Apparently there was a misunderstanding about a valet parking slip and a banana." This got curious looks from the whole crew, but they all knew, this was Vegas where anything is possible. "The rest of us have a multiple at a gas station on Washington Avenue. There was an argument between the attendant and an irrate customer. The customer decided to come back with reinforcements."

"What kind of reinforcements?" asked Sara.

"You'll see." was the only answer Grissom would give, "Let's go."

The crew broke up to get to their vehicles when Greg stopped Grissom. "Hey Grissom."

"Yes Greg?"

"Can Alana come too?" He asked like a little kid asking his dad if his best friend could come along on a fishing trip.

"Sure Greg. We can use all the help we can get, but it'll have to be eyes only."

"No problem." They both answered at the same time.

Grissom just shook his head. This was going to be a long night.

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Grissom and Sara took Grissom's Denali. Warrick drove the other truck while Alana rode shotgun. Greg didn't mind being stuck in the back seat, it was better than potentially contaminating the crime scene. Alana was one of the worst when it came to riding in the back seat. Even on a short drive, she would be about six shades of green by the time they got there.

"I used to work at a gas station in Philly," Alana said, "I was the assistant manager of a little kiosk for about two years while I finished my degree at Princeton. You would not believe some of the things that people did there."

Warrick just laughed, "Try me."

"I take it back. I've heard Greg's stories," she said laughing, "But we did have some pretty wild things happen. I can't tell you how many times people threatened to come after me when my shift was over. I guess one of the best things was the time when I took the surveillance tapes and sent them to America's Funniest Home Videos."

"Why would you do that?"

"Well, first, I have to explain the set up of the booth. It's basically a big concrete box with bullet proof windows. There is a metal drawer that goes in and out between the cashier and the customer. The customer is supposed to put their money under the spring in the drawer. Most of them don't. On windy days, the money blows right out of the drawer and people are left scrambling around trying to catch it. One particular day it was very windy and this guy ended up chasing his money half-way down Torresdale Avenue. It was hysterical. I had to send it in annonymously, so I couldn't win, but it was worth it just to see it on TV. I heard later that the company was sued because several people recognized themselves. They never did prove it was me who sent it in."

They were laughing about this when they came up on the crime scene. What they saw brought their laughter to an abrupt halt. There was glass everywhere. The front windows had all been shot out. Three of the five pumps were on their sides. One car was pinned half-way under one of the pumps.


End file.
